Private Tales Avarice in the Aviary

[Patter Fen]

The path to profit, success and riches can come in all shapes and sizes. Some spend decades upon the path, labouring, toiling, falling and scoring gains where they might, all for miniscule evidence of their efforts at any point during their journey.

Others spent mere years and find themselves with all the trappings of success and no mind how to appreciate the world they now find themselves belonging, oft spending too much beyond their success, for poverty's instruction to indulge as the starving might before a banquet.

Many fail to understand that fortune and success is a road that has no end destination, only landmarks. To be truly successful, one must never be afraid to tread further along it. ​

These words mesmerised at first, soon memorised and acted upon. It had changed the fellow known as Patter Fen's life forever, setting him from the path of medicine to the path of mercantile fortune, and quickly found his sandals making quick tread along that road to riches so described within from such instruction.

That road, while having numerous incremental yet bounding steps from risk, insight and boldness blending into financial action from Patter Fen, had one vital stride within it.

It had begun with two things, both miracles of luck to be acquiring, and the wit to apply them liberally, for invention oft required brutal sacrifice to allow for enterprise. A knife of Damascus. And artefacts that were worth a Sultan's ransom.

All to make further tread upon that road to fortune, in the heart of Seluca.

And today, as the sun reached it's height beaming bold through the aviary glass ceiling, as the gold trim of attendants to the birds did flutter from cooling breeze from intricate pipe lattice, Patter considered his place upon that path as his gold rings did clutch at grapes. Chewing slowly, preciously. Pondering much as moisture met his palette, sweet and well ripened flavour of the rich life he now enjoyed.

He shoo'd away another platter that was wafted in his direction without looking at the attendant, who's duty was to indulge those who patronised the birds, and especially those who patronised the establishment's coffers as Patter Fen did. Membership of this place had been secured a scant few months after his invention had made firm leaps and bounds upon the roads of success, and it served him well as a meeting place. Gilded scandals met the floor as Patter Fen did inspect the birds, held in vast cages that contained their flight but not their songs.

His company would be recognised and welcomed when she would make entrance, for she was now on the guest list. A guest list to a place that required some acumen, some financial grit, to have such a place to admire the flight of ideas and the plumage of ventures. The place was large enough, the servants discreet enough to make this place a secure locale for trade talks that were not fit for the act of wild haggling on the street.

Instead of such bandying braying words of offer and counter offer, there instead was the calm serenity of well established connections and mutually beneficial relationships blossoming as the birds did flutter and swoop and make melodies from craw. A small fountain offered it's pitter patter. Servants moved silently with entrées and refreshment, guiding those entering the place perfectly to where they might be heard by sympathetic, enterprising ear.

Patter Fen stood before the golden cage that contained a mighty red parrot, who craned it's neck in expectation. Beak preening, clacking in expectation before the bars.

A grape was passed between the two, and gulped down slowly by bird that met his eye.

“Good boy,” Patter said softly, and felt a twitch within his large ear as he heard the large swinging doors welcome someone new, the exchange of words as the guest list was checked, and entrance was made of the one he expected.

A smile crept upon his features, the now familiar thrill of a new prospect to be founded and built upon coursing through him. He held position before the parrot, their eyes still meeting, another grape passing between them as he awaited his invitee's introduction.

Patter himself was quickly becoming known for his quick success over the last three years in various sectors of the market, mostly importing of hibiscus teas, the settling of labour concerns in gold mines he had partnership in, the movement of spices and scents, particularly of smelling salts, alongside other commissions for discerning concerns.

But the formative success which was only for discerning ears and consigning purpose was to be revealed to this new company with the presence of wings and entrées.

To those rare few who spoke with knowledge of his formative enterprise, Patter Fen was known as the 'Little Lord of Carpets', and he was soon to share how he had made such bold strides on the road to fortune found himself upon with his guest.

For his future hopes and ambition pivoted upon it.

Jahára

 

[Jahára]

Jahára's strides were purposeful, her presence commanding as she entered the aviary-filled domain of opulence. Her dusky skin seemed to shimmer beneath the streaming sunlight, reflecting the flamboyant hues of her elaborate attire, a gathering of silks that displayed the vibrant offerings of Seluca's bustling markets.

Her entry to the grand hall, heralded by the rustle of fine fabrics, bespoke elegance and power wrapped in the guise of feminine grace. The attendants bowed slightly as she passed, acknowledging the Sultan's ransom in the form of the peacock's essence adorning her neck and chest.

Inclining her head regally towards Patter Fen, Jahára's gaze met his with a glint of calculated curiosity. She observed the scene – the caged birds, the golden glow, and the interplay of wealth and ambition.

"Mr. Fen," Jahára's voice, velvety yet commanding, carried across the ornate hall, mingling with the symphony of avian tunes. "A pleasure to finally grace your establishment. I trust your parrot isn't the only one here with a penchant for discerning taste?" Her words held a playful edge.

As she moved closer to the golden cage, her gaze met the eyes of the magnificent red parrot. A mutual understanding between caged beasts.

"Your reputation precedes you," Jahára continued, her tone carrying a note of respect. "I've heard tales of the 'Little Lord of Carpets' weaving success stories along the road of commerce."

As she conversed, Jahára gracefully retrieved a small, exquisitely adorned pouch from within the layers of her attire. With a delicate gesture, she presented it to Patter Fen, inclining her head respectfully. "A humble token, Mr. Fen, offered in the spirit of goodwill."

Nestled within the pouch rested a handful of her renowned coffee beans, carefully wrapped in the finest silk, exuding a grounding and rich aroma that promised an unparalleled brew.

"Crafted with a touch of secrecy and perfected with spice," she elaborated, a sparkle in her eyes. "It's a pleasure best savored, especially in moments of shared endeavors."

She had decided to approach the meeting not as an opportunity to haggle, but to sow the seeds of a prosperous relationship. She was here to foster mutual growth, her business acumen simmering beneath her polite demeanor.

Patter Fen

 

[Patter Fen]

Fen's eyes were bright and full of wit as they regarded his company, ears tall to the conversation, hands encased in bejewelled sets of gold bands. Everything about the fellow's appearance seemed showroom perfect, freshly plucked from weave and made part of his apparel.

He shot out his cuffs and made wide spread of fingertips in circular motion as he did put on his most pleasing of smiles. He began to speak with luxurious tone, enjoying each flair of pronunciation and roll of the tongue. It was not the languid flattery of sycophants with all the dull hallmarks of speech, rather, it was as if Patter Fen was presenting the very best of things as if they were but a signature away.

"To be of discerning taste is to know when to partake and when to abstain, and while I partake in such a moniker, the less one speaks of it the better, for discretion is the art to which I practice and facilitate. Welcome, yes, welcome, your gifts are admirable, your appearance bold to the ventures before us. Such bodes well, for you and I both, for there is much to be had if further understanding be broached and garnered, like so many wild birds to gilded, purposeful cages. After all, for each slip of information received, do we have a compunction to the use of it. Use that moniker with others with discretion, habibi, and much luck will come about. Those who speak of it frequently are not those in the know, you know. And I wish for you to be so, for it benefits us both in such...interesting times. The sands themselves shift daily, revealing new landscapes. The ink within ledgers grow long. And here we find ourselves within the paradigm shift of rulers, with commerce being our way. Pray tell, when news, rumour, orders and tasks must travel as swift as winds that shift the land around us each time they are read, what messenger can be trusted not to shift them further for their favour? An errant eye, a sharing of a detail, such things can lend folly to the most perfect of plans. And I sense there are much plans about you, yes."

Jahára

 

[Jahára]

As he spoke, she couldn't help but note the eloquence with which he wielded his words, like finely crafted tools meant to carve their way through the intricacies of trade. His showy demeanor unmissable. She could feel how emphatically he was trying to entice her.

The rise and fall of kingdoms often mirrored the ebb and flow of commerce, and Jahára was a forever student to both games.

"Ah, discretion," she echoed with a knowing smile, "A virtue in our line of work, indeed." She stood up from examining the bird cage, collecting her hands in a neat clasp in front of her, her expression guarded. "You speak true, Mr. Fen. A whisper carries more weight than a shout, especially in these... interesting times."

"But trust, is a rare commodity. Information, even rarer. I'm well acquainted with the shifting sands you speak of. And I've found that very discretion to be the key to building such trust," A soft tilt of her head, eyes gleaming with shrewd calculation, "Can I trust in your discretion then, Mr. Fen?"

Patter Fen

 

[Patter Fen]

"Rare is the commodity torn asunder to allow me to facilitate that very thing. A singular treasure torn asunder by precise measure, my name sake does not refer to the use of the mundane carpets with deliberate flaw. Rather than whisper, why not allow threads to weave where words must flow. Rather than trust in the tongues of the lacking who do attend, why not find a singular example of my backing, look to palm and calmly know the nature of my name," Fen said softly, and turned to look at the parrot once again.

As he did so, a gentle nudge against the wrist of Jahára, from soft thing of mystical nature, a tiny fragment of a magical carpet. It floated tight to the body, and could be seen but not snatched upon, darting from fingertip playfully. It revealed itself for small moments, secretive, sudden and fast, showing itself in rich hue and pattern, before escaping to Patter Fen's sleeve in turn.

"Swifter than the winds that form the dune, more discrete than any word spoken, these woven slips of magic do serve, carrying writ, whim and word. These servants may serve you, if you speak soft to me and sympathetically of coin to earn in tandem. I charge a variable fee, depending on the extent of your ambition and the breadth of your influence, yet an accord can always be reached habibi, an accord may always be found should fortunes be favoured. You are no fool of course, you understand most naturally the advantages of such a practicality."

Jahára